


How the Game is Played

by elegantanagram (Lir)



Series: HSWC 2014 Bonus Round Fills [15]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Mob, Challenges, Gang Violence, M/M, Mafiastuck, Motorcycles, Negotiations, POV Third Person, Power Dynamics, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Wordcount: 100-2.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:04:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1929483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lir/pseuds/elegantanagram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the outside, <i>Silhouette</i> looked like nothing special – like just another palace of the flesh, albeit classier than most, and certainly nothing like the headquarters for a cities-spanning crime syndicate. But syndicate was just another word for a gang, even if they were bigger and rougher and sometimes liked to dress nice. They were sitting on turf that was right smack at the intersection of two of Bro's biggest supply lines, which put their organization in the center of his crosshairs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How the Game is Played

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the first bonus round of the 2014 [Homestuck Shipping World Cup.](http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/) The prompt was "Remember when Bro and Dad were in rival gangs?" 
> 
> Crime-based AUs and rivalry are two of my favorite things, so this prompt was pretty much made for me.

-

It took three years in the saddle, before Bro finally decided he needed to expand territory. 

The throne he'd taken had been a cushy one, well-groomed by the efforts of his predecessor. Doubtlessly that man had expected to live out a long, fruitful life reaping the rewards of his ample leadership skills and unflinching intimidation tactics, not to mention Bro's sharp knack for business as his second in command. Bro hadn't knocked the guy off, but he couldn't say the same for the man's old lady with any assurance of his truthfulness. 

Bro pulled his helmet off his head, cradling it in the crook of his arm as he used one leg to keep his bike standing upright, if at a considerable lean. He drove his free hand through his hair, mussing it and coaxing it back to life after being crushed under his helmet, while he stared down the empty alley alongside _Silhouette._ Infrequently, the side door of the gentleman's club would open, some schmuck pulling out garbage or popping outside with his mouth pressed urgently to his phone. 

From the outside, the place looked like nothing special – like just another palace of the flesh, albeit classier than most, and certainly nothing like the headquarters for a cities-spanning crime syndicate. 

Whatever. Syndicate was just another word for a gang, even if they were bigger and rougher and sometimes liked to dress nice. They were sitting on turf that was right smack at the intersection of two of Bro's biggest supply lines, which put their organization in the center of his crosshairs. He parked his bike properly, strolled around to the front of a joint he'd already cased, and walked inside. 

The club's interior was dim, as befitted any house of ill repute, although the man waiting inside and demanding to see his ID – awww, did he look that young, he was fuckin' flattered right down to his toes – was done up in distinguished black tie. He bought himself admittance, and was allowed past a gray-painted interior door to the main room, thronged with men and cast into even lower light, save on the stage at the front, where some young lady worked her stuff in the rosy glow of a steady spotlight. 

It took one cursory scan for Bro to single out the man he wanted: the lone dick not watching the show. 

He rolled up to the man's table and dropped himself into the opposing chair. He stretched to settle his jacket against his shoulders, comfy as could be, ready to find out if his patches would be obscured by the ambient gloom. "I didn't know folks were in the habit of bringing work to titty bars nowadays," he said, nodding his head toward the sheaf of papers spread out on the table. "You must be some kinda important guy." 

"Nothing so lofty," the man replied, not immediately looking up from his work. His pen ticked down a row of something or other, Bro couldn't see with the meager light they'd been offered, and he wondered for a moment how this guy managed to do anything in a dim-lit club without slowly going blind. "I simply feel a need to keep busy."

"Busy, huh?" Bro asked. "You sure that's the truth? Maybe you're just not interested in the sorts of charms the rest of the clientele is bein' offered? Seems a shame, with the rack and curves on at least the one of these lasses, but there's plenty more to admire her if you won't." 

"I hope you're not trying to pick me up," the man said, at last lifting his eyes from his papers. "This hardly seems the place, least of all if you expect such endeavors to go well." 

Bro wasn't, not really – god, not even a little, he was here on business and fuck him twice with a rake if he tried to pick up the competition – but that wasn't to say the man didn't fit his own definition of "handsome." His nose was too prominent and his chin was too soft, but his eyes had this precise sort of intelligence to them that was more than enough to make up for other failings. He carried himself with composure, and it always had been self-assurance that Bro found hot. 

"Wouldn't dream of it," Bro said. "I sure as shit wouldn't wanna get as ignored as that poor lady up there just tryin' to impress you." 

"She's not trying to impress me," the man said. "She's doing her job, for her paycheck, which is exactly as her state of affairs should be. She desires tips, but it is hardly my fault if you project your desire for attention onto a third party." 

Ouch. Fucking cold as shit, and without faltering a hair. 

"I'm not here for you to throw me a tenner and tell me that even if my daddy really didn't love me, you can do it better with a little reciprocation to grease the wheels," Bro said. "That's who you are, ain't it? The Patriarch of his own little Family, passing time in a club like he's just one of the boys." 

The man shot him a sharp look, and Bro swore he could feel the man's patience dry right up.

"I told you," he said, "that I am nothing so lofty as you choose to suppose." 

"It's a Family club," Bro insisted. 

They weren't even Italian, as far as Bro knew. He wasn't dealing with the mob, and there certainly wasn't any historical precedent to forgive how ungodly fucking trite it was for a criminal organization to run that same old buddy-buddy "we're your brothers" routine on their men. He'd bet his last dollar it was just some power-hungry old man getting a hair too sentimental in building himself a legacy.

Come to think, maybe this guy wasn't the leader of the syndicate. Whatever else Bro thought, he wasn't getting the right kind of self-aggrandizing vibe. 

"That it may be," the man agreed, at some length. "But that's hardly a detail of interest to anyone save for myself – or at least it shouldn't be, and you'd do best to forget it." 

Bro could still make his play, even if he wasn't dealing with the big man in charge. If nothing else, he still had his money on the proprietor for _Silhouette_ being an officer in the organization, and that was running it far enough up the flagpole for his purposes. 

"I want to broker a deal," Bro said. "A business deal. A supply and demand, you don't demand my suppliers jump at the ghosts of your people so goddamn much, I don't supply my product to soldiers on the street who don't like your face, kinda business deal." 

After speaking, Bro endured another long, protracted moment of being stared at, the scrutiny almost intense enough to put even his titanium-alloyed nerves on edge. 

"I don't appreciate threats." 

"Then try appreciating deliveries. I don't promise anything I can't make damn fucking good on." 

"I'd very much like to see you try, if you're so certain your weight-slinging is wise." 

Somehow, Bro should have been expecting it. It wasn't surprising to have his bluff called, but Bro also wasn't sure he was bluffing – after playing it safe for the entirety of his time in charge of his crew, it'd do his position a world of good for him to prove just how well he could handle himself in a conflict. 

If that was really his goal all along, he probably should've kicked a hornet's nest where the bastards inside didn't have such wicked huge stingers – or such staggering resources to bring to bear against him. 

"Better prepare for some shit, then, because weight isn't all I'm slinging." 

"We don't negotiate with those who lose," the man said, turning his nose back toward his papers. 

"Don't worry," Bro said. "I'm gonna show you how the game is played, and I'm gonna be the one writing out all the details of your losing concessions." 

Bro stood up from his chair, tossing a few larger bills on the table before making to leave. "And tip your dancer for me. I can only hope you'll offer up even a quarter of her show." 

-

-


End file.
